Whiting: Raising a roof – and spirits – in Mexico

TIJUANA – In a deep, dusty canyon far from the hustle and flow of downtown, Rosa Maria Villalobos stares at something she's never owned and shifts uncomfortably trying to answer an Orange County volunteer's question.

The volunteer wants to know exactly how Villalobos would like the tiles fastened on her new kitchen counter. But the woman, who within a few hours will move into a new house, is so appreciative of the generosity surrounding her that it's difficult to tell someone what to do.

After years of cooking outside, Villalobos can barely believe she is about to have an indoor kitchen – let alone a real house. Her five-member family's current home is tiny and made of discarded garage doors. Worn, torn canvas on the roof is its only defense against rain.

Villalobos glances toward the house under construction, just four feet from her old home. It will be twice the size and have painted plywood walls supported by 2-by-4 frames. It will have a loft, a real front door with a brass lock and a pitched roof covered with shingles.

In Spanish, Villalobos calls her new home, “The biggest dream of my life.”

Avoiding eye contact, Villalobos shyly suggests putting the small tiles as close to the front of the counter as possible. But, in truth, such details hardly matter. Her old kitchen was little more than a faucet sticking up from the ground, a few plastic buckets and a place to cook.

Make no mistake, the family's benefactor may be a nonprofit, a charity. But the 35-year-old Laguna Hills-based foundation called Corazon offers no free hand-outs.

Corazon is responsible for building 1,500 homes and, like others, Villalobos and her husband have waited years and put in more than 500 hours of community service to earn their new home.

Watching from the modest Corazon-built community center next door, Anita Crawley, trip coordinator, smiles upon seeing about 50 volunteers scurrying about. For three decades, Crawley and her family have driven from Orange County to Mexico to build homes with Corazon – the Spanish word for “heart.”

Crawley of Yorba Linda is used to seeing people in Villalobos's situation struggle with such wonderful questions as what kind of kitchen counter do you want or where do you want windows?

Sure, for those who quarrel with contractors over granite versus glass countertops, it can be difficult to comprehend that a four-foot tile countertop can seem like a miracle.

But you understand when you stand on a roof you helped create where only a few hours ago there was nothing but air.

• • •

The day starts in darkness on a bus that leaves Orange nearly three hours before sunrise.

The sponsor for this build is Lazy Dog restaurants, and the seats are filled with a sleepy crew of Lazy Dog volunteers including servers, bartenders, chefs – even the head honchos who run the growing chain.

Lazy Dog's out-of-pocket cost for giving a family a home? Eight grand, less than half a typical American kitchen remodel.

At the top of a steep canyon on Tijuana's outskirts, the bus driver says there's no way he's going to try to navigate down. Most of the volunteers hop a truck for a ride. But it's been too long since I've been in Mexico, and I decide to walk.

Although we're less than two hours from Orange County, nearly everything reminds that we're in a foreign land. Raw sewage moves through a trench covered with pieces of board and chunks of concrete. Tangled electrical wires connect to homes – or don't connect to anything. Thousands of old tires jammed in dirt hold together crumbling hillsides.

The more I walk, the more Orange County stress disappears. The sun is just starting to climb, and the curving, rocky, rutted road is quiet. A few old men and young boys offer an “hola” or “buenos dias.” Dogs of various sizes and colors, all without collars, sniff the cool morning air.

But the homes make me shake my head. Many are nothing but pieces of board and rotting plywood. Some are old, stucco structures with faded paint of sky blue or sandstone brown. A few are made of fresh gray concrete, boast modern windows and rise three stories or more.

As I speculate about the challenging and sometimes deadly economics of Mexico, I arrive at the garage-door home where Villalobos lives with her husband, two daughters and son. Soon, there's a constant parade of volunteers in and out of the small, fenced yard, each person carrying something – tools, wood, nails.

Someone asks if I'm Dave, and I nod. The next words I hear: “You're the lead builder today.”

I know how to use a circular saw, tile, do plumbing. But lead builder? We're in serious trouble.

Luckily, at that moment a guy with a well-worn tool belt approaches and says, “Hi, I'm Dave Key.”

• • •

Key, a senior software executive, knows his way around a house build like a Cirque du Soleil performer know his way around a trapeze.

During the week, Key is managing director for Cloud Strategies, a Laguna Hills-based mobile digital company. On weekends, he can be found with hammer in one hand, saw in another – and somehow straddling a beam at the same time.

Key's best trick? Hanging on narrow rafters while moving a heavy fiberglass ladder with his feet.

When the build starts and without a trace of irony, Key preaches three things: safety, safety, safety.

With more than 150 house builds under his tool belt, Key's knowledge far surpasses everyone but the true Corazon veterans. Wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and with a doctorate in chemical engineering, Corazon President Tom McMillen gently shepherds volunteers and helps make sure the science of building a home remains just that: a science.

Volunteers as young as 15 carry stacks of lumber and plywood out of the yard and onto the dirt road, the only vacant area in this congested canyon. Plywood boards are lined up for painting. Nancy's trimmed 2-by-4s are carefully measured and marked so they can be nailed into framing.

I grab my hammer and start pounding 16-penny nails more than three inches long. But it's been a while since I've hammered big nails and smash a finger instead of steel. A volunteer offers to help hold the perpendicular boards together. I swing my hammer like Thor.

Hanging with an outfit such as Corazon is nothing like struggling with home projects by yourself. Working with a team isn't only more fun, it's easier.

• • •

While others hammer, paint, measure twice, cut once, Nancy McMillen says some volunteers return home thrilled, as they should be, that they helped build a home. “Others,” she explains, “get bit.”

Like Key, the Crawleys, and Dan Dillon, president of Huntington Beach-based Lazy Dog, the McMillens got bit.

Before recently moving to San Juan Capistrano, the couple commuted by plane for nine years to participate in Corazon projects. Nancy estimates she and her husband have helped construct 300 homes.

While a half-dozen local boys and girls play in the road, Mike Crawley says that after working on dozens of Corazon projects, his daughter joined the Peace Corps and served in Guatemala. Now she's working on her master's degree in nonprofit grant applications.

Of her service, Mike smiles and says, “It's in her blood.”

By mid-morning, the plywood walls, rafters and trim are painted, the massive roof and wall frames complete. Next, strong volunteers must do what appears impossible – tilt the heavy frames upright, climb several stairs, thread the unwieldy structures between a tree and the old home and rest them on the concrete slab.

The “impossible” goes off smoothly with perseverance and teamwork coming together to do the work of a crane.

As the home takes shape and with a near-perpetual smile on his face, Lazy Dog's founder, Chris Simms, blurts out to no one in particular, “Oh my gosh, isn't this great?”

A voice behind a wall answers, shouting, “It's Christmas in Mexico!”

Close, but actually, it's lunchtime.

• • •

Villalobos and her daughters carry large metal pots of beans, rice and chicken drowning in red mole. Duenas' grandmother fills my plate. I don't know if it's the atmosphere or the chef, but hers is the best mole I've ever had. Subtle spice, rich flavor.

After lunch, I alternate between hammering and cutting plywood with a circular saw. Claudia Brown, a 27-year-old Lazy Dog server and bartender, helps hold the pieces together. Coincidentally, it turns out Brown was born in the same Mexican state, Guadalajara, as the family she's building a home for.

Competing against the scream of Skil Saws and pounding hammers, we fall into a loud conversation about why Brown chose to spend a very long day building a house when she could be relaxing. Understand, Brown worked at her regular job until a few hours before the bus left. She grins and offers, “This is my way of helping Mexico.”

As we talk, a team of 10 on the ground lifts the rafter frames toward the roof. A team above hoists. The frames meet to create the roof's peak. Again, the “impossible” is done with nothing but people power.

I join others twisting and turning between rafters to hammer. Bill Borden of Westminster puts the finishing touches on framing the front door.

And Key performs his ladder dance.

By Orange County standards, the home may seem pitifully small and lacking what most of us would call basic necessities. Sitting on a concrete slab, the house, excluding the loft, covers 320 square feet. It's up to the owner to figure out plumbing, heat, electricity.

Still, the feeling of satisfaction seeps through everyone. Villalobos' and Duenas' daughters, Claudia, 20, and Mayra, 16, stand between their old and new homes. Claudia blushes and covers her mouth with her hand trying to hide a smile so wide her teeth shine.

I climb onto the roof and chat with Roshan Mendis, Lazy Dog vice president of operations. Mostly, we're on the roof just because it's so cool to stand on top of a house you helped build. But after some laughs, our talk turns serious.

Mendis was born in Sri Lanka and understands poverty. He proudly tells me that his daughter, Hannah, is a student at Biola University in La Mirada and is preparing for missionary work.

With windows installed, the house is finished. Volunteers pick up loose nails and pack away tools. But Villalobos and Duenas – about to move into a real house for the first time after 21 years of marriage – want to share.

In Spanish, Claudia reads a letter she's written, concluding, “Thank you for this great blessing.”

As the sun drops behind a canyon wall, I walk around the family's old home to check out the new house one last time. A volunteer has painted something small and high on the middle of the front door, something that captures the essence of the day.